Say I'm Better (Than When You Left Me)
by Scribbling Notes
Summary: It's been a while since you started believing that you're not a part of her dreams anymore.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything, only my computer.

**A/N:** Okay, I have nothing to say about "Dantana" except for: l0l! Go0d joke, Glee!

Nothing can compare to Brittana, that's that. (Even if this one-shot kinda isn't a manifestation of that _fact_. Sorry.)

Title is from Brandi Carlile's song, "Before It Breaks." Listen to it, it's really good.

_Please_ take some time to leave a review because it would really mean a lot.

**Thank you** for reading, and ship on.

* * *

December. It's the coldest, gloomiest December you can remember having in Ohio—the unmerciful chill ever so present, going through every layer of clothing. Accompanying the cold, thick in the air, is the spirit of Christmas. It doesn't give you the comfort you hoped it would bring you, when any other time, it would've easily brought a smile to your lips. It's undoubtedly your favorite holiday season, but it doesn't really seem to matter.

You're too nervous out of your wits; you can't seem to stop fidgeting in your seat, your fingers drumming an unpleasant beat against the steering wheel. In about five minutes, you're going to turn a corner and you'd stop in front of a huge house you've known since you were fourteen. You'd stop the car and you'd—

It didn't even seem to take five minutes for you to get to Quinn's house. Its outside is decorated lavishly, grand as ever. Normally, you'd snap a shot or two because the lights are so pretty, but not this time 'cause you don't think it's possible to keep your hands still if you tried.

You don't realize that you had actually been sitting in the car for minutes until your phone vibrates inside your bag. It's a text from Quinn again, asking where you are, for the seven-hundredth time now.

You let out a sigh. You know you're going to have to do it anyway; you're going to come into that house and see your friends—_every_ single one of them. You promised Quinn. It'll be such a big lie saying that you didn't think of pulling out of Quinn's vast driveway and heading back home quicker than Rachel can say "Hannukah." But, there's a stronger pull—stronger than just a promise to Quinn—not letting you run away.

It's getting harder to breathe, the pounding of your heart in your ears getting louder. It feels like you're suffocating and you know you just have to get out of the car.

You let out a hiss from being met by the cold as you step out of your Dad's car—yours is in Burt's shop, needing yet another repair. Speaking of cars—

You don't see the all-too-familiar, shiny, red car—the one that used to show up in your driveway early in the morning on schooldays during senior year (your first one). It's not there, _yet_. But then again, there are so many ways to get to places. If you want the car to be there or not—you can't really make up your mind.

You force yourself to make your way up the marble porch steps before you start running away, back to the safety of your childhood bedroom. (You're being absolutely ridiculous, you know it.) You ring the doorbell and wait, your hold on your jacket tightening as a shiver runs through you, and you're pretty sure that it's not anymore from the cold.

As soon as the hardwood door swings open, you see a flurry of blonde and suddenly, a pair of lithe arms is wrapped around you.

"Thanks for coming, Britt," she says only loud enough for you to hear.

It warms your cold skin and the tight knot on your chest loosens a little. You missed Quinn a lot and you tell her as much; she missed you, too.

Quinn ushers you inside and you hear yourself yelp as you're lifted off the floor.

"_Mike_, put me down!" you squeal, followed by a fit of giggles.

He just laughs and gives you a squeeze before putting you back on your feet.

You give him a playful slap on the arm and he pulls you into another hug—your feet staying planted on the ground this time.

"I didn't get to see you enough this year," Mike whispers.

You only nod. "I missed you, too. I promise I'll try harder."

You thank Mike as he takes your coat, and Quinn slips an arm through yours. She starts leading the three of you to the kitchen, probably where all your other friends a—

You're stopping all of a sudden. Their steps are halted as well, both turning to you with confused looks.

You clear your throat as quietly as you can, but your voice betrays you, breaking when you speak. "I-I-can I use the bathroom?"

It's probably the worst, most ineffective line anyone could've used to make it less obvious that they need to buy some time. Great.

There's an uncomfortable silence that wraps around the three of you, and you can't help but fidget under Quinn's stare, one that you know is studying you carefully.

After a beat, Mike clears his throat before saying, "I'm gonna go ahead and check on them."

You didn't want him to leave your side so soon but you feel relieved somehow. As soon as he ducks into the kitchen, Quinn's expression changes into a knowing one, then there's a sad smile on her face. One you don't really want to see.

"It's okay, Britt. She's not here."

Your stomach sinks at that—if it's crushing disappointment or the fact that you're caught, you don't even know. Your mouth falls open and you start shaking your head. "I didn't—it's not—" you utter, and you know it's no use when Quinn rolls her eyes, as if to say, "_Puh-lease_."

You feel your face warm and it reaches the tips of your ears. "I just—" you pause, letting out a defeated sigh. "It's been a while." That's all you can say, and you know it's enough because it's Quinn.

It's been a while. It's been a while since that fateful day when she felt she had to do the _mature thing, _and _not-officially_ broke up with you. It's been a while since she found out you started dating Sam and she came back, hurt and angry, showing off her fake-girlfriend. (She's always had a weird way of showing she cares.) It's been a while since she kissed you sadly, filled with finality, when you told her it's okay to go chase her dreams and that you'd always be her best friend. You may have lied about the last part; it was never really going to be easy—for the both of you, it seems, because neither of you were able to keep that promise.

It's been a while since you started believing that you're not a part of her dreams anymore, not like how she used to tell you.

It's been a while now since you started trying to forget.

Really, it's a long list of things and you realize it's probably not a good time to rehash them, so—

You plead Quinn with your eyes to let you go, because you definitely need a moment before you face your friends. You don't want to show up at your little reunion looking the way you feel. And you know you must look really—for a lack of a better term—_unbecoming_ at the moment.

You close the bathroom door behind you carefully, flicking on the light. You avoid looking at the mirror as you stand in front of the sink. Leaning against the counter, you take a deep breath. You don't want to think; you don't want to feel. _It's been a while. It'll all be okay. Everything will be okay._

You're starting to really dislike that word.

You take your time before making your way to the kitchen. As soon as you round the corner, the smell of freshly ground coffee hits your nose—comforting.

It's like waking into a time warp, back when you were all in Glee Club. There's Artie, Tina, Mercedes, Sugar, Puck, _Kurt _and_ Rachel_, but—

No, you won't ask.

You close your eyes and laugh, letting yourself be consumed in tight hugs and at the sound of your name being shouted, like it's been two decades. It feels strangely like coming home, like family.

You sit on the bar stool in front of the island, sandwiched between Puck and Mike, while Quinn, Mercedes, Tina and Kurt are busy with the food. You're being questioned by a very excited—as per usual—Sugar, and Artie, both at the same time, like you don't even text. Then everyone starts asking questions. Almost everyone seems to tune in to what's happening with your life, when really, there's nothing new to tell. You moved to LA, you dance, you do homework, you fall asleep on your books, you have crazy roommates, you live on microwavable food and pizza, you dance. You're pretty sure they already know all that anyway.

You're glad the attention gets diverted from you when Puck begins to tell his story about that one time he and Mike visited you in LA—well, it started out that way but, unsurprisingly, became about his one-night stand threesome that rouses a chorus of groans and a lot of eye-rolls; you start to think that none of you has really changed that much.

Everything goes on as though you've never been apart. It's almost the same but with less drama and more actual conversations about almost-adult-like things.

You're all laughing loudly as Sugar tries to hit the high notes of "All I Want For Christmas Is You". You love Sugar and all, but that girl should just not.

Then there's—

"Hey, losers."

Silence. Your body goes rigid. You'd recognize that voice over just about anything, anywhere, anytime. You didn't even notice Quinn—or anyone—get the door.

"_Santana_!" You hear your friends shout around you.

You thank all the heavens that you're faced away from the kitchen's entrance, because the look on your face must be just _unacceptable_. Your hand automatically goes to your hair, flattening out the sides, best you can under your knitted beanie; you fix the scarf around your neck, like it would bring about any change. You lick your lips and you hope it's not as dry as how your mouth feels. It's as though your heart grew a pair of feet and started running; it's going so hard and fast inside your chest and, and—

Nothing could've ever prepared you for this moment.

You turn slowly toward where the voice came from, the direction to where your friends ran. Then, you see her. Despite all the bodies wrapped around her, which you know must be making her uncomfortable, you see her. Her hair is shorter and she's wearing it straight, simply swept to one side. She's wearing tight black jeans and a leather jacket you've seen on her a dozen times—so simple yet breathtaking. Her smile is wide, wider—more genuine—than you think you've ever seen it. She's stood just a few meters from you, talking to Quinn, her stance so relaxed, her eyes so bright and calm—no traces of the usual hardness in her eyes and the frown between her brows. She's, like, glowing.

You wonder if she's seen you yet—that's if she's even looking for you.

You just sit there, frozen, staring openly at her.

You're wishing, hoping for her to see you.

Then Quinn starts to move and Santana follows, making their way further inside the room.

You're still wishing, hoping for her to see you.

Santana looks up and your eyes meet. You can't move.

You can't move even as she moves closer to you.

"_Hey, Brittany_." It's like you're underwater, the words coming muffled to your ears. Her smile is stretched across her face, her eyes mirroring it, showing no hints of strain—like there were no phone calls that ended up in fights, nor months and months of nights spent apart, nor resentment, nor regrets. Just a plain smile—the same one she gave your friends not too long ago.

"H-hey," you reply, giving your best attempt at a smile.

And then she's gone, turning away from you before you even get the chance to _feel_.

You realize she's called you by your full name; she didn't look at you, no, not even long to notice that you've grown your hair longer, or how the sun in LA looks on your skin. You try your best not to feel, or you'd break then and there.

She hops on top of the counter and leans against the cupboards. She'd unnecessarily lost weight, it's visible, but she looks _so _good. The grown-up thing must really be for her. She seems to be doing it perfectly well; she's really, finally living the dream.

You're somehow glad that she isn't sitting directly in front of you, or it would've been super, extra hard not to look at her. You try to catch her eyes, though, so she could know that you're glad to see her without actually telling her. But, she's talking to all of your friends—some of them she normally wouldn't pay attention to when you're together—and yet, she doesn't even glance your way.

You've never felt like such an outsider in your life.

It was just like those times in high school when you were with Artie and she didn't understand why you had to do what you did; when you were constantly hurting each other when all you really, truly wanted was to be with each other. It hurt a lot.

You know about Santana and her brick walls. You know, and you've always had a secret way to get through, even when you were both still trying to _figure it out_. But now, you feel absolutely lost and terrified because you've never known how to be outside, underneath the shadow of those towering brick walls. You're not allowed in, no. Not anymore.

When they're done making the food, you all move out to the dining room. The table's been set and there's really nothing to do but sit. You hear Santana excuse herself, saying she needs to take a call. You take in a deep breath, the first real one you've let ever since you shared the room with her. Everyone takes a seat around the long table and you end up on the last chair of the right row, with Mike seated beside you. You then see that the chair in front of you is still empty, and Santana's the only one left without a seat. You almost hit your head on the table at your luck, but don't, debating instead whether to exchange seats with Mike.

You don't get the chance to ask him because—like divine intervention, or something—Santana's suddenly coming back into the room, pulling the chair and plopping down on it.

At Quinn's lead, you say grace. You can't really seem to pay attention to anything but keeping yourself composed in front of Santana.

Everyone starts to pass around the food. Eating is the last thing you want, but at least it'll give you something to do, and you don't want to seem ungrateful. The food looks and smells really good. There's roasted potatoes and chicken in front of you, and you put some on your plate. You start removing the skin of the chicken and—

That's how Santana likes to eat her chicken, too.

You know you made the mistake of looking up. You see her, and you think that—as cheesy as it sounds—she's more beautiful than ever. It's so hard to stop the memories from crashing down on you full force. You remember, when you would eat together, how she'd put food for you on your plate before anything else. And how you'd run your thumb against her jaw after, a silent _thanks, _to let her know how sweet you think she is without embarrassing her.

You remember coming here hungry, but now your stomach turns at the sight of the food.

Your friends talk and laugh, but you don't have it in you to utter a word. You just listen; you laugh every now and then, but mostly you're stuck on how wonderful Santana's voice, her laughter sounds to you. You wonder how you've gone through all those months without hearing it.

At one point, Kurt and Santana tell the story about the whole Brody-Rachel debacle. Santana has made up the most ridiculous things to call Brody and the apparent atrocity of his real identity. (Rachel's not all that amused.) You try your best not to laugh really loud, but you know you failed because she looks your way, a proud grin on her face.

She noticed you. You shovel a forkful of food into your mouth to hide your smile.

You know it doesn't change anything. It might not even mean anything.

It's been a while since you started believing that you're not a part of her dreams anymore, not like how she used to tell you.

It's been a while now since you started trying to forget.

You like to think you've come a long way—you've been really careful. So, you start to wonder how it's come to this:

How it's Santana all over again.

Santana, Santana, Santana.

You know you'll regret it after tonight; it's tossing almost a year's worth of work trying too hard—trying too hard to distract yourself from _so_ manypainful, constant reminders that: you're not with her anymore; she won't stay on the phone with you, whispering nothing and everything over the line until one of you passes out; you won't be able to feel her soft lips against the inside of your wrist, just because; you won't ever feel her arms wrapped around you from behind, cooing against the side of your neck when you've had a rough day. You know you'll regret it after tonight, rehashing all-things-Santana when you've hardly healed at the seams.

But she's Santana.

That's the first and the last time she looks at you all throughout dinner. You don't remember _fighting _this hard for her attention. You just want to scream at her, shake her gently but forcefully, for her to look at you, for her to talk to you, for her to give you something. Anything.

You wonder briefly if it would've been better if Sam were here, his arm placed around your shoulder. Because back then, when you were still with Sam, Santana would look at you with pain in her eyes and you'd know that she still cared.

You regret thinking that right away when you remember that look, and how you swore long ago that you'd never, _ever_ want to see her hurting.

You don't even realize that it's already past midnight until your friends stand up and starts getting ready to leave. You panic, and you suddenly think of doing cartwheels in the middle of the room, or dancing on top of the table, just so Santana would stay a while longer.

Your heart stops when everyone heads toward the front door and starts putting on their coats. You put on yours slowly, unwillingly. Thanks-for-a-great-night and promises to see each other soon are made. There are hugs and kisses on cheeks, and Santana feels too far when, really, she's just standing two steps away from you.

You're wishing, hoping that she'd hug or ki—just anything, really.

Then Santana's walking toward you, a small smile on her lips, and you're frozen. She gives you a loose, side hug, and you hear a simple, quiet, "Bye." You smell the scent that's always been on her skin, and it's intoxicating. You miss the warmth and scent all too quickly because it's gone before you even get to hug her back. You wonder how the two of you ended up like this. You shut your eyes tightly against the tears threatening to fall.

Soon, you're all out the door and heading to your cars. You try to move real _slowly_ but everything seems to be moving super fast around you.

You walk behind Santana, watching her as much as you could without it becoming too obvious. She's talking to Kurt and Rachel as she walks away from you, farther from your reach.

You notice that there's a car parked next to yours—one that you've never seen before—and you start thinking that it's actually hers. You're wishing, hoping it's hers.

"Bye, Britt!" you hear Sugar shout before she gets inside her car.

You giggle and wave back at her.

A few steps more, you reach your car. Kurt and Rachel walk past you, bidding goodbyes of their own. You want to jump for joy. You get her alone, even for just a very short while.

You hear a car door opening beside you and the thumping against your chest gets a little too much. It feels like another ending—when you know it's been a while since it's been… over.

"Are you going to be all right?" she asks. You know she's just trying to be polite, but you can't help but think she's asking a different question.

"Yeah, of course," you say, when really, _I'm trying really hard, San, _is what you want to answer. Your smile fades a little. "Are you?" _Are you happy?_

"Yup."

Your heart breaks all over again.

It's been a while since you started believing that you're not a part of her dreams anymore, not like how she used to tell you.

You now realize it really _is_ true. She doesn't need you as much as you need her. There're no traces of pain or longing or love or Landslide or Songbird or Mine, no, not like the last time. She's moved on—so done with _Lima_, with _high school_, and you belong to groups _Lima_ and_ high school_. She's happy, right where she wants to be; she's all grown up and different and great and amazing. You're happy for her, you really are. She's always been bound for something—_someone—_bigger, and better, the best. And, it's not you.

(It's never been you.)

Nothing ever hurt quite like this.

Nothing ever hurt quite like her.

Silence.

Santana looks around and taps the top of her car once. "I guess I'll see you around, then."

"Yeah, see you."

She gives you a small wave and then she's getting inside her car.

_ Wait._

"San—tana?" you call after her. You couldn't not to do it. Just ten more seconds, you promise.

Ten. Nine. Eight. "Merry Christmas," you whisper, so quietly you're afraid she might not hear.

Seven.

Six.

Five. Her smile fades a little, too. "Merry Christmas."

Four.

_I still love you more than anything._

You're wishing, hoping, tears filling your eyes.

Three.

Two.

"Bye," she says, and then she's gone.

One.

Maybe it's time for you to start having a different dream, too.


End file.
